


Coriander and Tuberose

by dragonspell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:32:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the sex pollen that's making Sam crazy. Dean wishes he had the same excuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coriander and Tuberose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runedgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runedgirl/gifts).



> Written for [runedgirl](http://runedgirl.livejournal.com/) for the 2011 round of [spn_j2_xmas](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/) on livejournal.

At one point in Dean’s life, he’d thought that the Impala was huge. The backseat alone had seemed to stretch on forever and a day and who needed a house when they had a car that was as big as one? There was room for the whole family _and_ the army guys—even if Dad wouldn’t let them have a dog ( _“Goddammit, Dean, where would you put it?_ ”). Nowadays, Dean can only wish that he still felt the same way.

Of course, it’s hard to think of the car as big when your baby brother who used to fit comfortably on your lap has grown to epic, yeti-sized proportions and sometimes seems to be larger than the car he’s riding in. Sam would in no way, shape or form, ever fit on Dean’s lap like he used to.

…Though something in Dean would like to try it.

Dean winces and tries to derail that train of thought. He has no business going there and he damn well knows it. Not to mention, it’s not likely to help—and he needs all the help that he can get right now because Sam’s in the next seat over, panting and feeling himself up and letting enough filth drop out of his mouth that it’s starting to turn Dean’s ears pink—and Dean hadn’t realized that that was even possible anymore. He wishes Sam would stop, because, damn it, it’s starting to get to him.

That’s his excuse and he will ride it to his grave. Otherwise, he’d have to explain why his jeans have gotten too tight in a span of a few minutes with nothing around for miles besides the Impala’s roar and Sam’s filthy mouth—which, coincidentally, are starting to merge. Who would have guessed that Sam had a thing for the Impala?

“C-could lay you out, right on the hood, spread out, and lick you ‘til you scream,” Sam’s whispering and Dean bites his lip as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It’s the sex pollen that’s making Sam say these crazy things. Things like, “God, Dean, I want to fuck you so bad… Bend you over and make sure you can’t walk right for a week… Pull over, Dean… There’s room in the back. I know how you like it… As slow as you want, Dean, I promise—just as long as I’m in you.”

Sam’s hands are tied—for everyone’s sake—and he’s firmly buckled in but that’s not stopping him from straining for Dean, reaching for him like Dean’s his last hope of salvation and Dean’s offering it at an extended discount. Dean edges the Impala’s speedometer a little higher, making the little yellow lines go by that much faster. Dean doesn’t have any salvation left. All he’s got is a one-way ticket straight to Hell because he doesn’t care if it’s wrong: he wants to take Sam up on his offer.

The problem is that Sam’s only offering it because he got a face full of a witch’s flower pollen before the witch and the flower both withered and died and, inside—if Sam’s capable of thinking at all—he’s probably horrified. Dean wishes that he had the same excuse. He’d take the allergic reaction from Hell if it meant that he’d didn’t have to realize some very uncomfortable things about himself—namely that he finds his baby brother—the one who used to fit so easily on his lap—hotter than a forest fire. Dean risks a glance at Sam and squirms again. Sam’s burning down the world over there, panting and straining with a massive boner pushing at his zipper. Dean’s disgusted with himself, but he’d cross that line in a New York minute—faster. He wouldn’t even look for oncoming traffic.

All Dean can think about is just how small the Impala seems right now. He can’t remember when she ever felt this tiny and cramped. And, yet, he knows, that when he goes to park her, she’s going to seem like a boat in comparison to all the other cars. Somehow, they’ve entered a zone where the Impala’s interior is a quarter of the size of her exterior, done in by freaky flower pollen.

Sam licks his lips and tilts his hips upward. “Come on, Dean, just one little ride… You won’t even have to untie me. Just… _straddle me_ … Fuck!” His voice is raspy, blown out and Dean swallows. He was hoping to make it back to civilization before Sam got too far gone—get Sam a nice, non-guilt-inducing hooker. Oh, sure, Sam being Sam, he’d still get all angsty about having sex with a hooker—or probably having sex at all—but at least it wouldn’t be angst of the ‘holy shit, I just had sex with my brother!’ type. As much as Dean would like to listen to Sam’s unsubtle suggestions, he knows that he should do the responsible thing.

Unfortunately, Dean doesn’t think he’s going to get that option. Just before the witch died—curling in on herself like her damn freaky flower—she’d burbled something about how there was no one around for miles and Sam...didn’t have that long. And he deeply wishes that his dick wouldn’t jump in excitement upon receiving that news. The pollen had started out easy—just making Sam sneeze a few times and shake his head—but it hadn’t taken long for it to go from “Dean, I feel odd…” to “Jesus, I want to fuck you so hard right now.” Fast enough to cause whiplash if you weren’t prepared for it.

Though how anybody could be prepared for a situation like this, Dean doesn’t know. “Let me suck you,” Sam pants, sliding down the seat as far towards the foot well as he can manage. “Just put your dick in my mouth, Dean…” He moans, writhing against the vinyl and when Dean dares to glance at him, his heart sinks—Sam’s squirms aren’t all desperate, flower-induced lust: some part of them are pain. “Please, Dean… It hurts,” Sam whispers and Dean knows that his time is up. The hooker idea is straight out the window and blowing in the breeze because Sam’s not going to last long enough to make it to town.

Dean had no idea if the small Texas outpost had hookers, anyway. Never a truck stop around when you needed one.

Gravel crunches beneath the Impala’s wheels sounding definite and final and like it’s Dean being ground up and flattened. As he slips the car into park, Dean’s insides are tied in a tight knot that he knows isn’t likely to unwind anytime soon. He takes a deep, steadying breath—he can’t wimp out on Sam; he has to do this—and turns in the seat to face Sam.

Sam’s humping the air, sweat dampening his too-long hair and Dean’s heart stutters, unable to decide if it needs to ache or skip a beat at the sight and so does both. “Dean…” Sam rasps. “P-please…”

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean whispers back, his voice still sounding too loud no matter how quiet he tries to make it. “I’m going…” He can’t even say it. “I’m going to help you out, okay?” Sam nods fervently, his bound hands twisting around each other as he tests the ropes again and Dean nods back. It just seems like the thing to do. It’s not like there’s a protocol for this kind of thing—no asking Miss Manners for the proper way of helping to get your brother off. “Yeah, okay.” He unclicks Sam’s seat belt because there’s no way he’s going to be able to do this with it on and it’s not like he needs Sam to stay in his own area anymore.

The sound of Sam’s zipper being eased down over Sam’s straining cock seems to echo in the cramped interior of the Impala. Dean goes slow, trying to tug it down gently because he’s got no idea how Sam didn’t manage to rip right through his jeans. There’s no give at all in the denim and Sam normally likes his jeans so loose he could fit Rhode Island in the empty space. Dean didn’t understand why before but now he does—any tighter and pitching a tent for Sam would be downright painful.

“Jesus, Sam…” Dean slides his fingers lightly over the bulge peeking through Sam’s open fly, making Sam hiss and squirm. Dean yanks his hand back and glances at Sam’s face, at his tightly squeezed shut eyes and clenched teeth, before balling up his courage and flattening his palm against Sam’s dick. Sam’s a lot bigger than Dean thought he’d be (baby brother grew up in more ways than one) and Dean’s a little unsure how to do this. He’s hoping that a quick, non-scaring-as-possible hand job will take care of Sam’s problem. If that’s the case, then they might just get out of this experience in one piece.

The thought of untying Sam and letting him try this on his own floats through Dean’s head—let Sam jerk himself off to save on the guilt factor—but he quickly tosses it out. If he unties Sam, they’re both fucked, in more ways than one. It’s not the only reason why Dean’s so quick to dismiss the idea but he’s not thinking about the other one. Or at least, he’s not acknowledging it.

Something deep inside Dean shivers at the idea of letting Sam loose and letting Sam do whatever he likes. Dean’s seen Sam when he’s out-of-control, seen Sam when he’s just barely hanging on to the edge of sanity. He knows what kind of power Sam has, what kind of damage he can do. Something sick and twisted pulsing in Dean’s soul would very much like to see that— _would like to see what Sam could do to him._ There’d be bite marks down his neck and upper chest and bruises the shape of fingerprints on his hips and elsewhere. It’s only Dean’s rational mind—let Sam loose and bite marks and bruises wouldn’t likely be the only thing Dean would get—that keeps the ropes around Sam’s wrist.

Sam sucks in a harsh breath and jerks to the side. “Easy, Sam…” Dean parts Sam’s boxers, reaching between the flaps and Sam groans like he’s just been run through with a hot poker. “Easy.”

“D-do…” Sam swallows and grips Dean’s overshirt. “Don’t have time for easy,” he growls and Dean has to admit that Sam’s got a point. They’re all out of time. Dean smiles bitterly at himself. They’ve been out of time for awhile—they’ve been out of time since Sam was fifteen and Dean’s dick had noticed that Sam felt really nice underneath Dean when they were wrestling. The little spark of arousal had caught Dean by surprise, his mouth going wide, and he’d frozen. It was the first time that Sam ever won and he’d crowed about it all week. Dean had nearly drowned in the guilt and self-disgust before he’d rationalized that it probably just had to do with warm bodies, friction, and teenage hormones. Now, as his fingers wrap around the shaft of Sam’s dick and a tight ball of heat settles into his belly, he realizes it was probably something a little more.

Sam’s hands are clenching rhythmically on Dean’s shirt, matching his breathing and the short pulses of his hips and Dean falls right in line, letting his fingers stroke over Sam. Dean watches for a moment, staring at where his hand is wrapped around Sam’s cock, between the open flaps of Sam’s jeans, and there’s a little panic mixed in with a whole lot of lust. He glances upward to Sam’s face where Sam’s got his teeth sunk into his lower lip, trying to hold onto whatever control he can get. There’s a muscle jumping in Sam’s jaw from the tension and Dean focuses on it— _his_ way of keeping a tight grip on a sense of control—as he pumps Sam in long, firm strokes that are steadily speeding up. Dean knows how Sam likes it—he’s listened to him enough, back during those nights that Sam thought Dean was asleep. The harder and faster, the better, and Dean’s guilt at knowing that is only fueling his arousal, twisting around the lust and amping it up to the nth degree.

Sick.

Sick, twisted, and damning—but there’s no way that Dean can pretend it’s not him. This is all him. It’s the sex pollen that’s making Sam gasp and hump Dean’s hand but it’s all Dean that’s finding the sight hotter than the sun. Dean bows his head and closes his eyes, letting his forehead drop against Sam’s straining bicep. There’s going to be no more denying it anymore—at least not to himself—but that’s something that Dean’s going to have to worry about later on. Sometime when Sam’s life is not depending on Dean’s ability to efficiently jerk him off.

“Fuck!” Sam swears. His head slams backward as he tosses in the seat and the entire car rocks with the motion. His hips buck erratically for half a moment before he doubles over and tries to slide through the far door.

Dean freezes and stares at Sam. “What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s—” Sam hisses and meets Dean’s eyes. “It’s not enough, Dean.” He whines and squirms, pulling against his bonds again.

“What do you mean ‘it’s not enough’?” Dean asks, confused, scared, and a little offended all at once. Dean’s not exactly a pro at the doing guys thing but he’s pretty sure he’s got the hand technique down.

“It’s not—” Sam stops, panting, his hands groping along Dean’s arm, reaching for Dean’s body. “It’s just making it worse… Co—come _here_!” He growls as he hauls Dean across the seat and Dean’s eyes go big. Dean grips Sam’s arms and nearly hyperventilates as he’s brought just inches from Sam and within groping range. His entire body is fair game now as far as Sam’s wandering hands are concerned and Sam takes complete advantage, using Dean’s pause as an opening to go for Dean’s crotch. Warm, determined fingers scrape over Dean’s zipper and Dean grabs them before they go too far. “Dean…” Sam grinds out between clenched teeth. “Just let me—”

“Hey whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean tries to fend Sam off because his dick is way too on board with Sam’s plan and there’s no way that Dean’s going to be able to pretend that he’s just looking after Sam’s well-being if Sam goes through with what he wants. Dean’s not going to be able to hide just how much he wants it and while sex-crazy!Sam might be A-okay with that, normal!Sam wouldn’t be. Dean wants to make it through this with as little damage as possible.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, shoving Dean’s head to the side with his own to get access to Dean’s ear. He bites down on the lobe and sucks and Dean only catches the moan once it’s already out of his mouth. He chokes it off and pushes at Sam’s shoulders as Sam leans against him. “I want you—want you so damn bad… You have no clue, no damn clue, how you look, what I want. The things I want to _do_ to you…”

Fighting Dean’s hold, Sam gets free long enough to brush his hand over Dean’s crotch. Dean scrambles to his knees and backs up until his hip slams into the steering wheel. “Son of a bitch!” He leans to the side, his knee sliding into the crack of the seat and his left leg bracing against the floor of the car, and tries to pull Sam away from his far-too-interested dick. It’s a mistake because Sam sees the immediate weakness: in a space of a blink, Dean’s lips are covered with Sam’s and Sam’s tongue is trying to shove itself down Dean’s throat.

Dean jerks upward and his head slams against the roof. “Jesus fuck!” Dean swears and rubs the back of his head, feeling for a bump in amidst the throbbing ache—forgetting that he was supposed to be fighting a battle. With Dean distracted, Sam pins him against the corner with alarming ease, sliding his body underneath Dean’s as his mouth attacks Dean’s neck and his hands dive beneath Dean’s waistband. A rush of lust stabs into Dean’s gut and, for a moment, he’s helpless before the onslaught. He shudders and lets Sam do as he wants, shuddering as Sam bites down. Sam’s skin is hot and sweaty against Dean and Dean moans softly.

When Sam manages to get Dean’s jeans undone and shoves his hands into Dean’s underwear, Dean’s brain fires back up and reminds him that Sam’s high on flower pollen and Dean’s supposed to be the DD here. Dean fumbles for the handle of the door and wrenches it open, falling backward out of the car. The gravel is hard and unforgiving when he lands on top of it and Dean grunts as he rolls to his feet.

Sam’s still sitting in the car, breathing hard and eyeing Dean like he’s the best steak ever cooked and free to boot. He licks his lips and Dean thinks he’s accidentally let a tiger into the Impala because he’s never seen Sam this hungry. Sam scoots forward, probably judging the distance he needs to pounce and Dean drags his knuckles over the bruise that Sam left on his throat, reassessing the situation.

“Okay, Sam,” Dean says quietly, standing up. “So the hand job didn’t work.”

Sam shakes his head. “No,” he rasps. “But maybe if I bury my face between your l—”

“C’mere.” Dean drags Sam out of the car, not letting him finish talking. Dean doesn’t need anymore ideas; he’s already got plenty. If Sam needs a little more than a helping hand, Dean thinks he’s got him covered. Sam stumbles but recovers and tries to pin Dean against the side of the Impala. Dean evades him as he opens the back door and shoves Sam in. “There’s no room up front.” The damn steering wheel would just get in the way and Dean’s hip can attest to that.

Dean climbs into the car on top of Sam and Sam eagerly reaches for him, fingers wrapping in Dean’s belt loops to pull him closer, encouraging Dean to straddle him. “Too damn hot in here…” Dean mutters, though it’s got nothing to do with the temperature. He shrugs out of his overshirt and tosses it into the front seat while Sam rocks upward underneath him, grinding himself against Dean’s ass.

“God, Dean…” Sam breathes. He sits up, going for Dean’s throat again, but Dean shoves him back down.

“I’m driving,” Dean says and Sam swears but doesn’t try to get back up again. He whimpers and writhes against the seat instead, his entire body moving between Dean’s legs. Dean braces his hands on Sam’s shoulders, giving Sam the extra help to stay where he is, and stares down at Sam’s contorted face, wishing again that he had as good of an excuse as Sam does. If there was freaky flower pollen driving Dean’s libido, maybe he wouldn’t feel so guilty about how heat is racing through his body, flushing his skin, and drying out his mouth. He wouldn’t be thinking about how this is his brother, desperate and wanton and waiting for Dean.

Dean shoves it all—the guilt, the what-ifs, the _thinking_ —to the back of his mind, filling it under ‘shit I need to forget’ because Dean’s good at nothing if not repression. Hell, he’s practically got an advanced degree in it because of how much field work he’s put in. It comes down to the fact that none of it is going to do him—do _Sam_ —any good right now. Right now, Sam just needs Dean to react and _do_ and Dean…Dean can definitely do that.

Despite Sam’s whining protests, Dean backs out of the car and away from Sam but before Sam can get back up again like Dean told him not to, Dean grabs Sam’s boxers and yanks them down, catching them on Sam’s jeans along the way. Going for broke, Dean bends over Sam and only pauses for a second before he runs his lips over the wet head of Sam’s hard cock, his tongue flicking out to lick at the slit. Sam stutters out something unintelligible and flops back down, his bound hands covering his face as his hips begin to roll. Dean sucks the head into his mouth, just testing it out, as he finishes pulling down Sam’s jeans, hearing the change in Sam’s pocket jingle as Sam manages to kick the pants completely off.

Dean’s sucked cock before—for a variety of reasons—and he’s not an expert but he knows a few tricks and he wants to try them all on Sam—blow Sam’s mind before Sam comes off his high and they spend the next few months carefully not looking at each other. He wraps his hand around the base of Sam’s cock, holding it steady while he licks up the side and then swallows it down, wanting to see just how much of it he can fit in his mouth and down his throat. It’s better than any he’s ever had before by the simple fact that it’s _Sam._ Sam paws at his hair, tugging and pushing like he can’t decide if he wants to pull Dean up to kiss him or shove him down more onto his cock. Dean takes it in stride and concentrates on holding Sam’s hips down—Sam’s trying to thrust and Dean’s about to choke.

Dean’s unable to go all the way down—Sam’s too damn big and who fucking knew?—but Sam seems to appreciate the thought: his back’s arching off the seat and he’s muttering in a combination of English and Latin. Dean’s impressed with Sam’s ability to wrap the Latin around the stream of four letter words Sam’s throwing out. He angles his head and hums because he remembers a girl doing the same and making him come in about six seconds.

Gravel crunches underneath Dean’s boots as he shifts position, bracing himself against the back of the seat and using his weight to pin Sam down instead of just his hands. He slowly bobs his head up and down, keeping his lips in a wet, tight ring around Sam. Dean’s own cock is throbbing painfully in his jeans and Dean gives it a quick, hard grope.

“I’m gonna… I need… Fucking Christ, Dean…” Sam says, bucking up against Dean’s weight. He’s not managing to finish his sentences anymore—all verbal skills shutting down—and Dean hopes that’s a good thing, that Sam’s getting close. Dean likes his mouth full of Sam’s cock, barely able to even breathe around it, and he doesn’t want this to end but he doesn’t want Sam to suffer anymore either. He wants Sam to come as soon as possible.

It’s the two hands, one on each of Dean’s shoulders, that brings him up short. Something’s wrong and he knows it because Sam shouldn’t be able to spread out that much. He freezes and flicks his eyes up to meet Sam’s, noticing along the way that, somehow, Sam’s managed to slip the ropes. _Fuck._ He knew he should have found the cuffs. Sam’s biting his lip, staring down at Dean, and just barely keeping it together. He’s one wrong move away from snapping and Dean knows better than to provoke him. Sam would break him—he wouldn’t mean to, but the chemical high would force him to. Dean keeps his rhythm, nice and steady, as Sam’s fingers clench on his shoulders. He’s come too far to stop now.

Sam hisses like he’s in pain, his breath coming hard and fast, and he thumps his head against the door, then Dean’s being hauled upward whether he likes it or not. Sam’s big enough to put Dean where he wants him and Dean’s shocked into compliance for a brief second. It’s all it takes for Sam to get Dean’s jeans undone and his cock out. Dean’s dick thumps full and hard against Sam’s belly, undeniable proof between them that this isn’t exactly a hardship for Dean and Dean flushes. Yeah, sure, he was just sucking off his brother, but somehow, having his cock sitting in front of Sam’s eyes is something else entirely. “Knew it,” Sam mutters and Dean would like to ask “knew _what_?” but he doesn’t have the time because Sam’s dragging his head down with one hand while his other closes around Dean’s dick.

Sam doesn’t so much as kiss Dean as he bites at his lips, too far gone for things like niceties but with Sam’s thumb swiping over the head of Dean’s cock, Dean’s not about to complain. Sam’s panting like a dog in between bites and his fingers tighten in Dean’s hair. Dean stutters forward, shuddering, because this is too hard and too fast but, _Jesus_ , it’s good. It’s _Sam_. Pure Sam free of his normal restraints and Dean can’t fight against that.

Sam’s grip changes and Dean feels himself gliding against something hard and soft and smooth at the same time and he moans when he realizes that it’s Sam’s dick, that Sam’s joined them together, jerking them both off at the same time. Sam’s moaning, too, a breathy sort of growl because he’s too far gone to care and Dean’s mind spits out the thought that the single hand job hadn’t done Sam much good but the two at once seems to be doing wonders. Then he stops thinking entirely.

Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s neck, one hand clenching in Sam’s hair, mirroring the grip that Sam’s got on him, and the other drags up Sam’s shirt to get at the skin underneath. Dean holds on for dear life, moving in time with Sam, rolling his hips with each upward thrust. They work together, writhing on the seat and Dean feels his orgasm approaching with all the subtly of an oncoming freight train. His muscles tense, his body locking, and then he’s spasming in Sam’s arms, Sam swallowing Dean’s shuddery moan. Hot come splashes between them, staining Dean’s shirt and Sam keeps stroking, using the semen as lube.

“Fu-uck,” Dean mutters, his body jerking through one last jolt of pleasure. Sam doesn’t seem to be inclined to stop, sending a few shivers that verge on painful through Dean’s oversensitive body so Dean bats him away. He wants to sit back and breathe for awhile, let himself come down gently, but Sam won’t give him the chance. Sam’s mouth is still locked with Dean’s but he’s dialed it down a few notches. It’s easier now, calmer, and Dean thinks that Sam must have come, too, and hopefully whatever fucked-up mess the flower pollen made of Sam’s system is starting to clear. Dean feels a pang of disappointment that he’s just had the ride of his life and it’s about to over and it’s followed by a swift rush of guilt. What the fuck is wrong with him, anyway?

Dean finally breaks away to suck in some much needed air and Sam lets him, tilting his head to kiss at Dean’s neck instead. Sam keeps rocking beneath him, a long sinuous roll, and Dean rests his head against Sam’s shoulder, glancing downward at where Sam had just been jerking them both off. It comes as a shock when he realizes that Sam is still hard, his hand moving steadily. Dean stares, not quite believing what he’s seeing but it doesn’t even look like Sam’s come yet. Embarrassment flushes Dean’s cheeks because, jeez, he didn’t even last longer than the guy literally dying from lust.

Wondering if maybe Sam needs the help to come—he wouldn’t put it past a witch’s freaky mojo to require it—Dean reaches down between them and wraps his hand around Sam’s. It’s all it takes because Sam arches like he’s been struck by a livewire and gasps as he comes. Dean stares, riveted by the sight of Sam’s pulsing dick spilling all over Sam’s chest. He couldn’t look away if he tried. He’s too busy trying to memorize the sight because he’s fairly certain he’s going to be replaying this one a few times over.

The guilt will probably just make him come harder, sick as it is.

“Dean,” Sam mumbles and hauls Dean upward for a kiss that curls Dean’s toes in his boots. He follows it up with another and another until Dean’s practically melting against Sam. With the flush of arousal gone, Dean’s reminded that the Impala—despite his earlier assumptions as a child—isn’t as roomy as he needs her to be and the open door is letting in a chilly draft that’s hardening the white stain on Dean’s shirt. It’s an unfortunate reminder of reality but Dean’s not ready to return to it yet. He lets himself float in a dreamy haze, figuring he’s warm enough and if he waits long enough, his cramped up leg will go numb.

It’s Sam that breaks away first, turning his head to take a deep breath. He stares down at the mess that he and Dean made of his chest, absently running his hand through the sticky puddle. Dean’s unsure if he should get up to let Sam deal with this at his own pace or stay to let Sam know that Dean’s here for him. He ends up shifting to the left, grunting when pain shoots up his right leg.

“You alright?” Sam asks and Dean laughs.

“Peachy,” he retorts. There’s a twinge in his back, his leg’s unlikely to forgive him anytime soon and his dick’s getting cold. Oh, and some witch and her freaky flower just made him royally fuck-up his relationship with his brother. As far as Dean is concerned, life really just does not get any better.

“Hey…” Sam says and pulls Dean back down, pressing another soft kiss to Dean’s lips.

Dean stares straight ahead, wanting to jerk away and press closer at the same time. Not wanting to alarm Sam, Dean asks, as casually as he can manage, “Are you still, uh, under the influence?” It would have been nice if the damn witch had left a manual laying around.

Sam shakes his head and lets his head thump against the window. “It left after you came,” he says and now Dean’s confused. “Guess it just needed someone _else’s_ orgasm.” That’s seriously good information right there—just in case they come across another power-hungry but kinky as fuck witch—but it’s not helping Dean figure this one out.

“Then you…”

Sam’s brow furls. “Well, yeah. You did.” He gestures at the mess where both of their dicks have gone limp—well, at least Dean’s has. Dean’s not sure if Sam’s still a bit hard or if he’s really just that big. Or maybe it’s larger than he thought because he’s up close and personal with it and not, say, looking at it from across the room when he’s supposed to be watching TV as Sam hunts for his boxers.

Dean blinks because, now that he thinks about it, his sudden and unforeseen attraction to his brother really wasn’t all that sudden or unforeseen. He’s just the king of repression and denial.

“Are we…okay?” Sam asks and he’s not the one that should be sounding so damn tentative and cautious.

“You were possessed by a flower, Sam.” Dean winces as he shifts again and his leg reminds him that unless he’s going to get up entirely, that’s a bad idea. “I don’t think anyone could hold that against you.”

Sam’s mouth twists like he’s holding back what he really wants to say before he sighs and Dean can see the ‘fuck it’ written all over his face. “I wasn’t at the end.” And Dean’s back to mutely staring because he’s not sure what Sam’s trying to get at. “I wasn’t at the end, Dean,” Sam repeats.

“But you had been for the better part of an hour, Sam.” The excuse is ready-made, falling from Dean’s lips but Sam screws up his face. It’s not what he wanted to hear.

“I wanted it.”

Dean snorts. “Of course you did. Freaky flower pollen ringing a bell? Jesus, Sam, it was shaped like a giant dick complete with balls. You’d think you’d remember.”

“I still want it,” Sam continues, as determined as a pitbull after a bone. Dean squints at him and Sam scowls. “I’m not possessed and I still want it.” He pauses for a moment, flicking his eyes down to Dean’s crotch. “Maybe I can blow you next.”

And it’s official. Either Dean’s about to see a damn white rabbit bouncing by with a clock or Sam’s still high on flower mojo. “I’ll call Bobby,” he says, backing out of the car. He tucks himself in and zips up his jeans, grimacing at how his dick dampens his underwear.

Sam, damn him, just crosses his arms and looks positively sinful pouting in the backseat of the Impala, practically naked. “Fine. Call Bobby. And when he says I’m fine and I say that I still want this, what are we going to do, Dean?” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the damp strands out of his eyes. “Are we going to deny it some more? Keep on pretending that this,” he points between them, “doesn’t exist?”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Dean thinks that he should be going for confused but he’s really approaching panic and he’s not sure why or even what to do about it. He just knows that Sam _knows_ and he’s not letting it go like he should.

“I’m talking,” Sam shouts, sitting upright, suddenly angry, “that it took a fucking _sex_ flower to get you to admit that—”

“That I’m a sick fuck?” Dean yells back, shocked into anger himself. “Yeah, thanks, I needed to know that. What do you want, Sam? You want to hear that I’ve been wanting to blow you since you were fifteen? That it wasn’t exactly a _hardship_ for me getting you off? Is that what you want to hear? Your brother’s a sick bastard who’d really like to fuck you! Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Sam, learn to let something _go_!”

“Well, _finally_ —fifteen?” Sam’s tone changes from pissed to curious fast enough to make Dean’s head spin and Dean’s off-balance enough to answer. He can’t believe that they’re having this conversation and Sam’s still mostly naked.

“Fifteen,” Dean says, figuring that if he’s going to let the cat out of the bag, might as well go all the way while he’s at it. It might have taken until tonight to figure the whole damn mess out but it’s finally clicked together like puzzle pieces slotting into place and apparently Sam was way ahead of him—like usual. He’s waiting for the condemnation, for the outrage, or, knowing Sam, possibly just the disappointment.

Sam frowns. “I was fourteen when I knew,” he says.

Dean braces himself against the car, one hand gripping the roof. “You knew?” Jesus, Dean was sicker than he thought if he’d been secretly lusting after Sam when Sam was only fourteen. Hell, Dean hadn’t even known—he’d probably thought it was too sick, even for him.

“Fourteen when I knew I wanted you.” Sam’s staring at him, waiting for his reaction, but Dean doesn’t know what to do because he’s unable to connect the pieces that Sam’s handing him. “It wasn’t all the flower, Dean,” Sam says softly. “It just made it worse.”

“Made what worse?”

“The fact that I want to fuck you,” Sam says bluntly and it’s a punch in the gut that knocks Dean for a loop. “That I’ve wanted to since I was fourteen.”

Dean can’t seem to breathe right. Every time he tries to draw in air, his lungs won’t let him. “Jesus, that’s sick.” His entire world has tilted on its axis.

Sam growls. “Like you’ve got a—”

“We’re _both_ sick,” Dean says and drops down on his knees on the Impala’s seat, straddling the leg that Sam’s still got kicked up. He’s staring at Sam’s mouth as what Sam’s telling him finally starts to click together and it fills in the pieces that Dean hadn’t even known were missing. It’s all starting to make sense in Dean’s head—in a weird, twisted kind of way. The odd looks that he caught from Sam now and then, how Sam always seemed to be aware of when Dean was taking a little extra time for himself…

Dean shivers as realization jolts through him like a lighting bolt. Oh, fuck, he thinks. He and Sam are fucked-up beyond recognition— _FUBARed_ —and there wasn’t much else left to do. “Sick fucks…” Sam’s trying to argue but Dean doesn’t let him. He’ll just fuck it up if he gets a chance to talk so Dean grabs Sam’s head and hauls him in for a kiss because it’s either that or die. They can’t stop and they can’t go back, so they might as well just keep going forward—and Dean’s never been one for going only half-way once he’s made up his mind. He either goes for broke or he doesn’t go at all. Sam moans and kisses him back, his tongue slipping past Dean’s lips. “Sick, brother-fucking bastards,” Dean breathes, unable to help himself, and Sam yanks him closer.

“You need to shut up,” Sam mutters and mashes their mouths together and, to Dean, that sounds like a great idea. He climbs on top of Sam and pushes him back against the window, hands gripping Sam’s shirt to hold him in place just in case Sam gets any ideas about moving. He’s got a lot of missed time to make up for and he doesn’t want to waste anymore—though Sam doesn’t seem to be complaining. Sam’s busy groping Dean’s ass, feeling it out like a blind man lost in a crowd, and there’s nothing behind it other than Sam—no witch, no freaky flower, just Sam wanting him. It’s enough to make Dean’s heart give a painful squeeze. In it’s own way, it feels a little like redemption, a ritual cleansing of the guilt he’s been repressing, and while Dean’s not above seeing the irony in that, he thinks it suits him and Sam just fine.

The Impala’s still a lot smaller than Dean remembers—there’s no shoulder room when he’s turned this way, no where he can stretch out his legs without bumping them into the door, and as much room as Dean takes up, Sam doubles it—and they’re both getting too old to be necking in the backseat like teenagers, but Dean doesn’t care all that much. He seems to fit comfortably on Sam’s lap nowadays, anyway.

Funny, how that works.


End file.
